


November 2, 2006

by eschatologies



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autumn, Community: hoodie_time, Gen, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eschatologies/pseuds/eschatologies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: Nov 2nd fic, please!? Sam and Dean circa season 1 or 2 because I MISS IT.</p>
<p>Dean doesn't get out of bed on November 2nd. Sam brings him pie and beer and then they watch bad horror movies and Dean doesn't talk about Mary and Sam cries and Dean doesn't and lots of heartbreak please!</p>
<p>So...I tried to do that, but this is what happened instead. I'm sorry, Anonymous, for deviating as much as I did!</p>
            </blockquote>





	November 2, 2006

**Author's Note:**

> X-posted from my livejournal, um, four years ago.

Dean didn't see the giant, motherfucking pot hole until the Impala was right on top of it, and by then it was way too damn late to do anything about it at 77 miles per hour (safely, that was). The tire fell off the plane of the road, sending the right side of the car jolting _down-up_ violently as they sped down the dark, thick pavement. 

"Shit," he and his brother murmured in sync: Dean's a frustrated apology toward the Impala, and Sam's a huffed complaint from the passenger seat as the motion jarred his two - possibly three, who knew - broken ribs. In response, Sam curled in on himself further, leaning over the seat and collapsed sideways against the door panel, his eyebrows screwed up in pain. Dean stole a glance sideways at his brother, the murky light-dark of dusk casting shadows on his huddled form. Sam's eyes were closed, but his breathing was quick and shallow and Dean knew the handful of Tylenol he'd forced on Sam when they climbed back into the Impala wasn't doing jack shit. 

"Come on, Sam, you gotta sit up," Dean reached out a hand to pull Sam's shoulders back toward the dark leather of the front seat. Sam unfolded pliantly, but kept his arms clutched around his ribs and continued to take staccato, shallow breaths. 

Dean knew his field triage for rib injuries like he knew the back of his hand (three parallel scars from a Black Dog a few states and years ago and a crooked burn from removing a casserole from the oven at Pastor Jim's when he was nine). Sam wasn't dizzy or disoriented, he hadn't coughed up any blood, and the pain looked...okay, it looked pretty bad but Sam was tough as nails. It was the breathing - or, the lack of breathing - that had Dean stepping a little harder on the gas pedal.

Surprisingly for the Winchesters, the hunt had gone remarkably well (for the first nine and a half hours, Dean amended). They rolled into town mid morning and had located family records and cemetery plot receipts for the Trenton's in the library by the time Dean was moaning about starvation and Sam's unique cruelty. Finding the grave was easy, getting to the body was easy ("Hell of a lot easier if you'd stop using your shovel like a girl, Sam"), and the remains were old enough that most of the rancid smell that normally accompanied their work had dissipated. The smoothness of the hunt lulled both boys into a sense of security that, Dean reckoned as Sam gasped another half-breath from the passenger seat, they weren't likely to forget any time soon. 

Dean blamed Winchester luck (read: bad luck). The ghost of Nathanael Trenton was nowhere to be seen as the boys unearthed the coffin, or cracked the lid and prepared the remains for ignition. But somewhere between dropping the salt canister and grabbing the lighter fluid, Dean’s watch signaled the end of November 1st. A heartbeat later, as the midnight hour of November 2nd ticked onward, shit hit the metaphorical fan in spectacular Winchester fashion. 

Trenton’s ghost, suddenly, wasn't in the business of going down without a fight. One moment, Sam was leaning against a nearby headstone, face flushed from exertion, and the next he was pitched through the air. Sam made a valiant effort to soften his landing, one arm whipping up to shield his important body parts (head, neck, brain) as he flailed through the air, but the effects of velocity and gravity were inevitable. Sam's body piked as his torso collided with the granite tombstone, and his legs torqued and threw a new wave of momentum sideways and downward. He landed in a crumpled mess of long arms and legs on the winter-frosted cemetery grass. Luckily, unluckily, however Dean looked at it, Sam kept Trenton distracted long enough for Dean to ignite the freshly salted remains.

Sam was gingerly lifting himself from the ground by the time Dean was sure Trenton was gone for good. Dean hooked an arm around Sam’s hips and helped hobble him back to the safety of the Impala. 

Now, back in the passenger seat, Sam folder over again, a small whimper accompanying a new, more frantic hitching of his breath. Dean accelerated through a curve and found another long stretch of dark country road, faint signs of civilization on the horizon. 

"Slow down, man." Dean said, flicking his eyes back to Sam. "Take bigger breaths."

"Can't," Sam wheezed, eyes closing again. His left hand was fisted into the denim of his jeans, grasping and releasing with each pitiful attempt to inhale. "Hurts. Fuck, Dean, it’s…Jess. Today."

Sam was shedding strands of a constructed facade with every shaky gasp, and Dean had an image of a much younger Sam stoically holding back tears as dad stitched together a jagged cut across the breadth of his boney, adolescent shoulders. It wasn't until later that night, when it was just him and Dean, that Sam finally let the pent up pain cascade in shuddering sobs.

“I know, Sam. I know. Just…slow it down.” Dean accelerated again. They were back in the outskirts of town, only a few blocks away. Good, great. This hunt was supposed to take Sam’s mind off the date, distract him, not exacerbate the dull arthritic ache Sam had been living with for a year now. “Don’t worry about that now. Breathe, Sammy. We’re almost there.”

“I could have…a whole year…” Sam continued, fighting harder for air and getting less and less for his efforts. “Jess,” he moaned again, and then his breath hitched sharply three, four, five times in a row. Sam’s left arm shot out in blind panic and latched onto Dean’s shoulder, gripping tight. The motion said, “Hurry the fuck up because I have officially stopped breathing,” without wasting a single word. 

Dean blew through a red light, hooked a right, and slammed on the brakes inside the motel lot. Sam’d lost Jess and they’d both lost mom and then dad, and Dean wasn’t going to let the world give him another reason to hate November 2nd. Not now...he couldn't...

“Fuck, Sammy, hold on.”

***

Dean woke shivering, the ghost of a blond haired woman in a white dressing gown in the periphery of his memory and a sick weight like lead in his stomach. He waited for the spinning to subside before opening his eyes. 

The winter sun had barely risen, sending streaks of light dazzling through the gaping blinds Dean had forgotten to draw. Dean blinked groggily and shifted under the stiff motel sheets. He remembered getting back to the motel, carrying a panicking Sam inside, calming him down. Dean had wrapped his ribs, and Sam got the good painkillers; Dean opted for the cheap whiskey and stayed vigil long after Sam’s sobs had faded into deep, mournful sleep some hours later. 

And now it was daylight. Dean rubbed a hand down his face, scratched at the stubble on his chin, and turned on an elbow to check on Sam. 

Sam’s bed was empty, the sheets and comforter twisted and tossed aside. 

Dean had his phone flipped open and was dialing Sam on speed-dial when the lock clicked and the motel door swung open. Sam shuffled inside, plastic bags hanging off his elbows, six-pack clutched at his hip and drink-carrier balanced in his other hand. He toed the door shut and swore under his breath when he bent to deposit the beer and coffee onto the table. 

“Jesus, Sam, you should still be in bed. What the fuck are you doing?” Dean grouched.

Sam jerked guiltily, and grimaced again when the sudden movement pulled at his ribs. “I’m okay, really. Couldn’t sleep any longer and figured we’d need provisions.” He shuffled toward his brother and deposited the bags at the food of Dean’s bed. Sam leaned against the bed to toe off his boots without having to bend down. One of the plastic sacks tipped and colored packages of junk food spilled forth onto the floral patterned bedspread. 

Dean raised an eyebrow, caught Sam’s eye and gestured at the packets of Twinkies, Doritos, gummy candies and beef jerky. “Provisions for the impending nuclear holocaust? Cause really, apocalypse is the only explanation I can come up with that would explain you buying up all the goods with more preservatives in them than food.”

Sam shrugged, grimaced a third time, and was about to respond when Dean cut him off. “Would you stop moving around already? It’s making me ache just watching you. What’s going on, man?”

Sam cast his eyes to the murky, stained carpet and started to do that thing with his foot that made him look all of seven, embarrassed and overwhelmed at having to meet Pastor Jim’s bible study ladies. “It’s November 2nd. I just thought…whatever, I just thought it would be okay to forget the world today. Eat bad food, watch bad movies.” When Sam looked up again, he looked terrified and sad and hopeful all at once, and it made Dean want to punch him (or hug him – neither of which would be good for Sam’s damaged ribs). 

Instead, Dean pointed at the cups on the table by the door and made a grabby motion with his hand. “Those better have coffee in them, or I swear to God I am going to pants you the next time we’re in public together.”

It was permission enough. Sam swung by the table to grab the coffee and the television remote and circled back to Dean’s bed, where Dean had peeled back the plastic on a package of powdered donuts. They talked their way through a couple so-bad-they-were-good horror flicks, Dean making lewd comments about every female on screen (when he wasn’t berating them: “What the hell is she doing sniffing around an abandoned meat-processing factory alone on Halloween? Dumb bitch.”) and Sam commenting on the unrealistic parameters of the various demonic summoning spells and rituals he observed.

They ordered pizza and ate pie for dessert. Maybe Sam shared a story or two about Jess and cried a little. And maybe Dean listened, laid a hand on the nape of Sam’s neck and didn’t call him a pussy for it.


End file.
